For here no vulgar joy effaces
Thy rage for polish, ton, and graces.
Cold Ceremony's leaden hand,
Waves o'er the room her poppy wand
Arrives the stranger; every guest
Conspires to torture the distrest;
At once they rise-so have I seen-
You guess the simile I mean,
Take what comparison you please,
The crowded streets, the swarming bees,
The pebbles on the shores that lie,
The stars which form the galaxy;
These serve to embellish what is said,
And show, besides, that one has read;-
At once they rise-the astonish'd guest
Back in a corner slinks, distrest;
Scared at the many bowing round,
And shock'd at her own voice s sound,
Forgot the thing she meant to say,
Her words, half utter'd, die away,
In sweet oblivion down she sinks,
And of her next appointment thinks.
While her loud neighbour on the right,
Boasts what she has to do to-night;
So very much, you'd swear her pride is
To match the labours of Alcides;
Tis true, in hyperbolic measure,
She nobly calls her labours Pleasure;
In this, unlike Alcmena's son,
She never means they should be done;
Her fancy of no limits dreams,

No ne plus ultra stops her schemes;

Twelve! she'd have scorn'd the paltry round,
No pillars would have mark'd her bound;
Calpe and Abyla in vain

Had nodded cross the opposing main;
A circumnavigator she'

On Ton's illimitable sea.

We pass the pleasures vast and various,
Of Routs, not social, but gregarious;
Where high heroic self-denial
Sustains her self-inflicted trial.
Day labourers! what an easy life,
To feed ten children and a wife!
No-I may juster pity spare

To the night labourer's keener care;
And, pleased, to gentler scenes retreat,
Where Conversation holds her seat.

Small were that art which would ensure
The Circle's boasted quadrature!
See Vesey's plastic genius make

A circle every figure take;

Nay, shapes and forms, which would defy
All science of Geometry;

Isosceles, and Parallel,"

Names, hard to speak, and hard to spell !

Th' enchantress waved her wand and spoke ! Her potent wand the Circle broke;

The social Spirits hover round,

And bless the liberated ground.

Ask you what charms this gift dispense?

'Tis the strong spell of Common Sense.
Away dull Ceremony flew,

And with her bore Detraction too.
Not only Geometric Art,
Does this presiding power impart;
But chemists too, who want the essence,
Which makes or mars all coalescence,
Of her the secret rare might get,
How different kinds amalgamate:
And he, who wilder studies chose,
Find here a new metempsychose;
How forms can other forms assume,
Within her Pythagoric room;
Or be, and stranger is the event,
The very things which Nature meant;
Nor strive by art and affectation,
To cross their genuine destination.
Here sober Dutchesses are seen,
Chaste Wits, and Critics void of spleen;
Physicians, fraught with real science,
And Whigs and Tories in alliance;
Poets, fulfilling Christian duties,
Just Lawyers, reasonable Beauties;
Bishops who preach, and Peers who pay,
And Countesses who seldom play;

This amiable Lady was remarkable for her talent in breaking the formality of a circle, by inviting her parties to form themselves into little separate groupes.

Learn'd Antiquaries, who, from college,
Reject the rust and bring the knowledge;
And, hear it, age, believe it, youth,-
Polemics, really seeking truth;
And Travellers of that rare tribe,
Who've seen the countries they describe;
Who study'd there, so strange their plan,
Not plants, nor herbs alone, but man;
While Travellers of other notions,
Scale mountain tops, and traverse oceans;
As if, so much these themes engross,
The study of mankind was Moss.
Ladies who point, nor think me partial,
An Epigram as well as Martial;
Yet in all female worth succeed,
As well as those who cannot read.

Right pleasant were the task, I ween,
To name the groupes which fill the scene;
But Rhyme's of such fastidious nature,
She proudly scorns all Nomenclature,
Nor grace our Northern names her lips,
Like Homer's catalogue of ships.

Once-faithful Memory! heave a sigh, Here Roscius gladden'd every eye. Why comes not Maro ?-Far from town, He rears the Urn to Taste, and Brown; Plants Cypress round the Tomb of Gray, Or decks his English Garden gay; Whose mingled sweets exhale perfume, And promise a perennial bloom. Here, rigid Cato, awful Sage! Bold Censor of a thoughtless age, Once dealt his pointed moral round, And, not unheeded, fell the sound;" The Muse his honour'd memory weeps, For Cato now with Roscius sleeps! Here once Hortensius loved to sit, Apostate now from social Wit: Ah! why in wrangling senates waste The noblest parts, the happiest taste? Why Democratic Thunders wield, And quit the Muses' calmer field? Taste thou the gentler joys they give, With Horace, and with Lelius live.

Hail, Conversation, soothing power,
Sweet Goddess of the social hour!
Not with more heart-felt warmth, at least
Does Lelius bend, thy true High Priest;
Than I the lowest of thy train,
These field-flowers bring to deck thy fane;
Who to thy shrine like him can haste,
With warmer zeal, or purer taste?

O may thy worship long prevail,
And thy true votaries never fail !
Long may thy polish'd altars blaze
With wax-lights' undiminish'd rays!
Still be thy nightly offerings paid,
Libations large of Lemonade!
On silver vases, loaded, rise
The biscuits' ample sacrifice!
Nor be the milk-white streams forgot
Of thirst-assuaging, cool orgeat;
Rise, incense pure from fragrant Tea,
Delicious incense, worthy Thee!

Hail, Conversation, heavenly fair,
Thou bliss of life and balm of care!
Still may thy gentle reign extend,
And taste with wit and science blend.
Soft polisher of rugged man!
Refiner of the social plan!

For thee, best solace of his toil!
The sage consumes his midnight oil;
And keeps late vigils, to produce
Materials for thy future use.

Calls forth the else neglected knowledge,
Of School, of Travel, and of College.

If none behold, ah! wherefore fair?
Ah! wherefore wise, if none must hear?
Our intellectual ore must shine,
Not slumber, idly, in the mine.
Let Education's moral mint
The noblest images imprint;

Let Taste her curious touchstone hold,
To try if standard be the gold;
But 'tis thy Commerce, Conversation,
Must give it use by circulation;
That noblest commerce of mankind,
Whose precious merchandise is Mind!

This was written in the year 1787, when Mr. Edmund Burke had joined the then opposition.

What stoic traveller would try A sterile soil, and parching sky,

Or dare the intemperate Northern zone,
If what he saw must ne'er be known?
For this he bids his home farewell;
The joy of seeing is to tell.

Trust me, he never would have stirr'd,
Were he forbid to speak a word;
And Curiosity would sleep,

If her own secrets she must keep :
The bliss of telling what is past
Becomes her rich reward at last,
Who'd mock at death, at danger smile,
To steal one peep at father Nile:
Who, at Palmira risk his neck,
Or search the ruins of Balbec;
If these must hide old Nilus' fount,
Nor Lybian tales at home recount;
If those must sink their learned labour,
Nor with their ruins treat a neighbour?
Range-study-think-do all we can,
Colloquial pleasures are for man.

Yet not from low desire to shine
Does Genius toil in learning's mine;
Not to indulge in idle vision,

But strike new light by strong collision.
Of Conversation, wisdom's friend,
This is the object and the end,
Of moral truth man's proper science,
With sense and learning in alliance,

To search the depths, and thence produce
What tends to practice and to use.
And next in value we shall find

What mends the taste and forms the mind.
If high those truths in esamation,

Whose search is crown'd with demonstration;
To these assign no scanty praise,

Our taste which clears, our views which raise.
For grant that Mathematic truth
Best balances the mind of Youth;
Yet scarce the truth of Taste is found
To grow from principles less sound.

O'er books the mind inactive lies,
Books, the Mind's food, not exercise!
Her vigorous wing she scarcely feels,
'Till use the latent strength reveals;
Her slumbering energies call'd forth,
She rises, conscious of her worth;
And, at her new-found powers elated,
Thinks them not roused, but new created.
Enlighten'd spirits! you, who know
What charms from polish'd converse flow,
Speak, for you can, the pure delight
When kindling sympathies unite;
When correspondent tastes impart
Communion sweet from heart to heart;
You ne'er the cold gradations need
Which vulgar souls to union lead;
No dry discussion to unfold

The meaning caught ere well 'tis told:
In taste, in learning, wit, or science,
Still kindled souls demand alliance;
Each in the other joys to find
The image answering to his mind.
But sparks electric only strike
On souls electrical alike;
The flash of Intellect expires,
Unless it meet congenial fires;
The language to th' Elect alone
Is, like the Mason's mystery, known;
In vain th' unerring sign is made
To him who is not of the Trade.
What lively pleasure to divine,
The thought implied, the hinted line,
To feel Allusion's artful force,
And trace the Image to its source!

Quick Memory blends her scatter'd rays,
Till Fancy kindles at the blaze;
The works of ages start to view,
And ancient Wit elicits new.

But wit and parts if thus we praise,
What nobler altars should we raise,
Those sacrifices could we see

Which Wit, O Virtue! makes to thee.
At once the rising thought to dash,
To quench at once the bursting flash!
The shining Mischief to subdue,
And lose the praise, and pleasure too!
Though Venus' self, could you detect her,
Imbuing with her richest Nectar,

The thought unchaste-to check that thought,
To spurn a fame so dearly bought;

This is high Principle's control!
This is true continence of Soul!
Blush, heroes, at your cheap renown,
A vanquish'd realin, a plunder'd town!
Your conquests were to gain a name,
This conquest triumphs over Fame;
So pure its essence, 'twere destroy'd
If known, and if commended void.
Amidst the brightest truths believed,
Amidst the fairest deeds achieved,
Shall stand recorded and admired,
That Virtue sunk what Wit inspired!
But let the letter'd, and the fair,
And chiefly let the Wit beware;
You, whose warm spirits never fail,
Forgive the hint which ends my tale.
O shun the perils which attend

On Wit, on Warmth, and heed your Friend;
Though Science nursed you in her bowers,
Though Fancy crown your brow with flowers,
Each thought, though bright Invention fill,
Though Attic bees each word distil;
Yet, if one gracious power refuse
Her gentle influence to infuse;
If she withhold her magic spell,
Nor in the social Circle dwell;

In vain shall listening crowds approve,
They'll praise you, but they will not love.
What is this power, you're loth to mention,
This charm, this witchcraft?-'tis Attention:
Mute Angel, yes; thy looks dispense
The silence of intelligence;

Thy graceful form I well discern,
In act to listen and to learn;

"Tis Thou for talents shalt obtain
That pardon Wit would hope in vain;
Thy wondrous power, thy secret charm,
Shall Envy of her sting disarm;

Thy silent flattery soothes our spirit,
And we forgive eclipsing merit;
Our jealous souls no longer burn,

Nor hate thee, though thou shine in turn;
The sweet atonement screens the fault,
And love and praise are cheaply bought.
With mild complacency to hear,
Though somewhat long the tale appear,-
The dull relation to attend,

Which mars the story you could mend;
'Tis more than wit, 'tis moral beauty,
"Tis pleasure rising out of duty.
Nor vainly think, the time you waste,
When temper triumphs over taste.

FLORIO:

A TALE,

FOR FINE GENTLEMEN AND FINE LADIES. IN TWO PARTS.

ΤΟ

THE HONOURABLE

HORACE WALPOLE.

MY DEAR SIR.

It would be very flattering to me, if I might hope that the little Tale, which I now take the liberty of presenting to you, could amuse a few moments of your tedious indisposition. It is, I confess, but a paltry return for the many hours of agreeable information and elegant amusement which I have received from your spirited and very entertaining writings: yet I am persuaded, that you will receive it with favour, as a small offering of esteem and gratitude; as an offering of which the intention alone makes all the little value.

The slight verses, Sir, which I place under your protection, will not, I fear, impress the world with a very favourable idea of my poetical powers: But I shall, at least, be suspected of having some taste,

Afterwards Earl of Orford.

and of keeping good company, when I confess that some of the pleasantest hours of my life have been passed in your conversation. I should be unjust to your very engaging and well-bred turn of wit, if I did not declare that, among all the lively and brilliant things I have heard from you, I do not remember ever to have heard an unkind or an ungenerous one. Let me be allowed to bear my feeble testimony to your temperate use of this charming faculty, so delightful in itself, but which can only be safely trusted in such hands as yours, where it is guarded by politeness, and directed by humanity.

FLORIO, a youth of gay renown,
Who gured much about the town,
Had pass'd, with general approbation,
The modish forms of education;
Knew what was proper to be known,
The establish'd jargon of Bon-ton;

Had learnt, with very moderate reading,
The whole new system of good breeding:
He studied to be cold and rude,
Though native feeling would intrude.
Unlucky sense and sympathy,
Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be:
For Florio was not meant by nature,
A silly, or a worthless creature:
He had a heart disposed to feel,
Had life and spirit, taste and zeal;
Was handsome, generous; but, by fate,
Predestined to a large estate!

Hence, all that graced his opening days,
Was marr'd by pleasure, spoilt by praise.
The Destiny, who wove the thread
Of Florio's being, sigh'd, and said,
"Poor Youth! this cumbrous twist of gold,
More than my shuttle well can hold,
For which thy anxious fathers toil'd,
Thy white and even thread has spoil'd:
'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth
From sense, simplicity, and truth,
Thy erring sire, by wealth misled,
Shall scatter pleasures round thy head,
When wholesome discipline's control,
Should brace the sinews of thy soul;
Coldly thou'lt toil for learning's prize,
For why should he that's rich be wise?"
The gracious Master of mankind,
Who knew us vain, corrupt, and blind,
In mercy, thc' in anger said,

That man should earn his daily bread;
His lot inaction renders worse,
While labour mitigates the curse.
The idle, life's worst burthens bear,
And meet, what toil escapes, despair.
Forgive, nor lay the fault on me,
This mixture of mythology;
The Muse of Paradise has deign'd
With truth to mingle fables feign'd;
And tho' the Bard who would attain
The glories, Milton, of thy strain,
Will never reach thy style or thoughts,
He may be like thee-in thy faults.

Exhausted Florio, at the age

When youth should rush on glory's stage;
When life should open fresh and new,
And ardent hope her schemes pursue;
Of youthful gayety bereft,

Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left;
He found already to his cost,
The shining gloss of life was lost;
And pleasure was so coy a prude,
She fled the more, the more pursued ;
Or if, o'ertaken and caress'd'

He loath'd and left her when possess'd.
But Florio knew the World; that science
Sets sense and learning at defiance;

He thought the World to him was known,
Whereas he only knew the Town

In men this blunder still you find,
All think their little set-Mankind.

Tho' high renown the youth had gain'd
No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd;
No tool of falsehood, slave of passion,
But spoilt by Custom and the Fashion.
Tho' known among a certain set;
He did not like to be in debt!
He shudder'd at the dicer's box,
Nor thought it very heterodox,
That tradesmen should be sometimes paid,
And bargains kept as well as made.
His growing credit, as a sinner,
Was that he liked to spoil a dinner;
Made pleasure and made business wait,
And still, by system, came too late;
Yet 'twas a hopeful indication,
On which to found a reputation:
Small habits, well pursued betimes,
May reach the dignity of crimes.
And who a juster claim preferr'd,
Than one who always broke his word?

His mornings were not spent in vice,
'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice:
Walk up and down St. James's-Street,
Full fifty times the youth you'd meet:
He hated cards, detested drinking,
But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking;
'Twas doing nothing was his curse,
Is there a vice can plague us worse?
The wretch who digs the mine for bread,
Or ploughs, that others may be fed,
Feels less fatigue than that decreed
To him who cannot think, or read.
Not all the peril of temptations,
Not all the conflict of the passions,
Can quench the spark of glory's flame,
Or quite extinguish Virtue's name;
Like the true taste for genuine saunter,
Like sloth, the soul's most dire enchanter.
The active fires that stir the breast,
Her poppies charm to fatal rest;
They rule in short and quick succession,
But Sloth keeps one long, fast possession;
Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd,
Th' usurper Rage is soon depos'd;
Intemperance, where there's no temptation,
Makes voluntary abdication;

Of other tyrants short the strife,
But Indolence is king for life.
The despot twists with soft control,
Eternal fetters round the soul.

Yet tho' so polish'd Florio's breeding,
Think him not ignorant of reading,
For he to keep him from the vapours,
Subscrib'd at Hookham's, saw the papers;
Was deep in poet's-corner wit;
Knew what was in Italics writ
Explain'd fictitious names at will,
Each gutted syllable could fill;
There oft, in paragraphs, his name
Gave symptom sweet of growing fame;
Tho' yet they only serv'd to hint
That Florio lov'd to see in print,
His ample buckles' alter'd shape,
His buttons chang'd, his varying cape.
And many a standard phrase was his
Might rival bore, or banish quiz ;
The man who grasps this young renown,
And early starts for fashion's crown ;
In time that glorious prize may wield.
Which clubs, and ev'n Newmarket yield.

He studied while he dress'd, for true 'tis,
He read Compendiums, Extracts, Beauties,
Abreges, Dictionnaires, Recueils,
Mercures, Journaux, Extraits, and Feuilles ;
No work in substance now is follow 'd,
The Chemic Extract only 's swallow'd.
He lik'd those literary cooks

Who skim the cream of others' books;
And ruin half an Author's graces,

By plucking bon-mots from their places;
He wonders any writing sells,

But these spic'd mushrooms and morells;
His palate these alone can touch,
Where every mouthful is bonne bouche.
Some phrase, that with the public took,
Was all he read of any book;

For plan, detail, arrangement, system,
He let them go, and never miss'd 'em.
Of each new Play he saw a part,
And all the Ands had by heart;

He found whatever they produce
Is fit for conversation-use;
Learning so ready for display,

A page would prime him for a day:
They cram not with a mass of knowledge,
Which smacks of toil, and smells of college,
Which in the memory useless lies,
Or only makes men-good and wise.
This might have merit once indeed,
But now for other ends we read.

A friend he had, Bellario hight,
A reasoning, reading, learned wight;
At least, with men of Florio's breeding,
He was a prodigy of reading.

He knew each stale and vapid lie
In tomes of French Philosophy;
And then, we fairly may presume,
From Pyrrho down to David Hume,
"Twere difficult to single out

A man more full of shallow doubt;
He knew the little sceptic prattle,
The sophist's paltry arts of battle;
Talk'd gravely of the Atomic dance,
Of moral fitness, fate, and chance;
Admired the system of Lucretius,

Whose matchless verse makes nonsense specious!
To this his doctrine owes its merits,
Like poisonous reptiles kept in spirits.
Though sceptics dull his schemes rehearse,
Who have not souls to taste his verse.
Bellario founds his reputation

On dry, stale jokes, about Creation;
Would prove, by argument circuitous,
The combination was fortuitous.

Swore Priests' whole trade was to deceive,
And prey on bigots who believe;
With bitter ridicule could jeer,
And had the true free-thinking sneer.
Grave arguments he had in store,

Which have been answer'd o'er and o'er;
And used, with wondrous penetration
The trite old trick of false citation;
From ancient Authors fond to quote
A phrase or thought they never wrote.
Upon his highest shelf there stood
The Classics neatly cut in wood;
And in a more commodious station,
You'd found them in a French translation:
He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes,
But keeps the French-just for the notes.
He worshipp'd certain modern names
Who History write in Epigrams,
In pointed periods, shining phrases,
And all the small poetic daisies,
Which crowd the pert and florid style,
Where fact is dropt to raise a smile;
Where notes indecent or profane
Serve to raise doubts, but not explain;
Where all is spangle, glitter, show,
And truth is overlaid below:
Arts scorn'd by History's sober muse
Arts Clarendon disdain'd to use.

Whate'er the subject of debate,
Twas larded still with sceptic prate;
Begin whatever theme you will,
In unbelief he lands you still;
The good, with shame I speak it, feel
Not half this proselyting zeal;

While cold their Master's cause to own
Content to go to Heaven alone;
The infidel in liberal trim,

Would carry all the World with him;
Would treat his wife, friend, kindred, nation,
Mankind-with what?-Annihilation.

Though Florio did not quite believe him,

He thought, why should a triend deceive him? Much as he prized Bellario's wit,

He liked not all his notions yet;

He thought him charming, pleasant, odd,
But hoped one might believe in GOD;

Yet such the charms that graced his tongue,
He knew not how to think him wrong.
Though Florio tried a thousand ways,
Truth's insuppressive torch would blaze;
Where once her flame has burnt, 1 doubt
If ever it go fairly out.

Yet, under great Bellario's care,

Pleased to the Opera, they repair,
To get recruits of knowledge there,
Mythology gain at a glance,

And learn the Classics from a dance:
In Ovid they ne'er cared a groat,
How fared the venturous Argonaut;
Yet charm'd they see Medea rise
On fiery dragons to the skies.

For Dido, though they never knew her
As Maro's magic pencil drew her,
Faithful and fond, and broken-hearted,
Her pious vagabond departed;
Yet, for Didone how they roar !
And Cara! Cara! loud encore.

One taste, Bellario's soul possess'd,
The master passion of his breast;
It was not one of those frail joys,
Which, by possession, quickly cloys;
This bliss was solid, constant, true;
'Twas action, and 'twas passion too;
For though the business might be finish'd,
The pleasure scarcely was diminish d;
Did he ride out, or sit, or walk?
He lived it o'er again in talk;
Prolong'd the fugitive delight,
In words by day, in dreams by night.
'Twas eating did his soul allure,
A deep, keen, modish Epicure;
Though once this name, as I opine,
Meant not such men as live to dine.
Yet all our modern Wits assure us,
That's all they know of Epicurus:
They fondly fancy, that repletion
Was the chief good of that famed Grecian.
To live in gardens full of flowers,
And talk philosophy in bowers.
Or, in the covert of a wood,
To descant on the sovereign good,
Might be the notion of their founder,
But they have notions vastly sounder;
Their bolder standards they erect,
To form a more substantial sect;
Old Epicurus would not own 'em,
A dinner is their summum bonum.
More like you'll find such sparks as these
To Epicurus' deities;

Like them they mix not with affairs,
But loll and laugh at human cares,
To beaux this difference is allow'd,
They choose a sofa for a cloud;
Bellario had embraced with glee,
This practical philosophy.

Young Florio's father had a friend,
And ne'er did Heaven a worthier send;
A cheerful knight of good estate,

Whose heart was warm, whose bounty great.
Where'er his wide protection spread,
The sick were cheer'd the hungry fed;
Resentment vanish'd where he came,
And law-suits fled before his name:
The old esteem'd, the young caress'd him,
And all the smiling village bless'd him.
Within his castle's Gothic gate,
Sate Plenty, and old-fashion'd State:
Scarce Prudence could his bounties stint ;
Such characters are out of print;
O! would kind Heaven, the age to mend,
A new edition of them send,

Before our tottering Castles fall,
And swarming Nabobs seize on all !
Some little whims he had, 'tis true,
But they were harmless, and were few;
He dreaded nought like alteration,
Improvement still was innovation;
He said, when any change was brewing,
Reform was a fine name for ruin;t
This maxim firmly he would hold,
"That always must be good that's old."
The acts which dignify the day

He thought portended its decay:
And fear'd 'twould show a falling State,
If Sternhold should give way to Tate:
The Church's downfal he predicted,
Were modern tunes not interdicted;

He gain'd each day a better air;

With many a leader of renown,

Deep in the learning of the Town,

Who never other science knew,

But what from that prime source they drew ;

Medea and Dido were the two reigning Operas at this time. These lines were written many years before the French revolution had in a manner realized Str Gilbert's idea of Reform.

He scorn'd them all, but crown'd with palm
The man who set the hundredth Psalm.

Of moderate parts, of moderate wit,
But parts for life and business fit,
Whate'er the theme, he did not fail,
At Popery and the French to rail;
And started wide, with fond digression,
To praise the Protestant succession;
Of Blackstone he had read a part,
And all Burns' Justice knew by heart.
He thought man's life too short to waste
On idle things call'd wit and taste.
In books that he might lose no minute,
His very verse had business in it.
He ne'er had heard of Bards of Greece,
But had read half of Dyer's Fleece.
His sphere of knowledge still was wider,
His Georgics, " Philips upon Cyder; '
He could produce in proper place,
Three apt quotations from the "Chace,"
And in the hall from day to day,
Old Isaac Walton's Angler lay.

This good and venerable knight
One daughter had, his soul's delight;
For face, no mortal could resist her,
She smiled like Hebe's youngest sister;
Her life, as lovely as her face,

Each duty mark'd with every grace;
Her native sense improved by reading,
Her native sweetness by good-breeding:
She had perused each choicer sage
Of ancient date, or later age;
But her best knowledge still she found
On sacred, not on Classic ground;

'Twas thence her noblest stores she drew,
And well she practised what she knew.
Led by Simplicity divine,

She pleased, and never tried to shine;
She gave to chance each unschool'd feature,
And left her cause to sense and Nature.
The Sire of Florio, ere he died,
Decreed fair Celia Florio's bride;
Bade him his latest wish attend,
And win the daughter of his friend;
When the last rites to him were paid,
He charged him to address the maid;
Sir Gilbert's heart the wish approved,
For much his ancient friend he loved.

Six rapid months like lightning fly,
And the last gray was now thrown by;
Florio, reluctant, calls to mind
The orders of a Sire too kind;
Yet go he must; he must fulfil
The hard conditions of the will:
Go, at that precious hour of prime,
Go, at that swarming, bustling time,
When the full town to joy invites,
Distracted with its own delights;
When pleasure pours from her full urn,
Each tiresome transport in its turn;
When Dissipation's altars blaze,
And men run mad a thousand ways;
When, on his tablets, there were found
Engagements for full six weeks round;
Must leave, with grief and desperation,
Three packs of cards of invitation,
And all the ravishing delights
Of slavish days, and sleepless nights.

Ye nymphs, whom tyrant Power drags down,
With hand despotic, from the town,
When Almack's doors wide open stand,
And the gay partner's offer'd hand

Courts to the dance; when steaming rooms
Fetid with unguents and perfumes,
Invite you to the mobs polite

Of three sure balls in one short night;
You may conceive what Florio felt,
And sympathetically melt;

You may conceive the hardship dire,
To lawns and woodlands to retire,
When freed from Winter's icy chain,
Glad Nature revels on the plain;

When blushing Spring leads on the hours,
And May is prodigal of flowers;

When Passion warbles through the grove,
And all is song, and all is love;

When new-born breezes sweep the vale,
And health adds fragrance to the vale.

A Poem by Mr. Somervile.

PART II.

Six bays, unconscious of their weight,
Soon lodged him at Sir Gilbert's gate;
His trusty Swiss, who flew still faster,.
Announced the arrival of his Master:
So loud the rap which shook the door,
The hall re-echoed to the roar;
Since first the castle walls were rear'd,
So dread a sound had ne'er been heard;
The din alarm'd the frighten'd deer
Who in a corner slunk for fear,
The Butler thought 'twas beat of drum,
The Steward swore the French were come;
It ting'd with red Poor Florio's face,
He thought himself in Portland-Place.
Short joy! he enter'd, and the gate
Closed on him with its ponderous weight.
Who, like Sir Gilbert, now was blest?
With rapture he embraced his guest.
Fair Celia blush'd, and Florio utter'd
Half sentences, or rather mutter'd
Disjointed words-as, "honour! pleasure!
Kind-vastly good, Ma'am !-beyond measure:"
Tame expletives, with which dull Fashion
Fills vacancies of sense and passion.

Yet, though disciple of cold Art,
Florio soon found he had a heart,
He saw; and but that Admiration
Had been too active, too like passion;
Or had he been to Ton less true,
Cupid had shot him through and through;
But, vainly speeds the surest dart,
Where Fashion's mail defends the heart
The shaft her cold repulsion found,
And fell, without the power to wound;
For fashion, with a mother's joy,
Dipp'd in her lake the darling boy;
That lake whose chilling waves impart
The gift to freeze the warmest heart:
Yet guarded as he was with phlegm,
With such delight he eyed the dame,
Found his cold heart so melt before her,
And felt so ready to adore her;
That fashion fear'd her son would yield,
And flew to snatch him from the field;
O'er his touch'd heart her Egis threw,
The Goddess Mother straight he knew;
Her power he own'd, she saw and smiled,
And claim'd the triumph of her child.

Celia a table still supplied,
Which modish luxury might deride;
A modest feast the hope conveys,
The Master eats on other days;
While gorgeous banquets oft bespeak
A hungry household all the week;
And decent elegance was there,
And Plenty with her liberal air.
But vulgar Plenty gave offence,
And shock'd poor Florio's nicer sense.
Patient he yielded to his fate,
When good Sir Gilbert piled his plate;
He bow'd submissive, made no question,
But that 'twas sovereign for digestion;
But, such was his unlucky whim,
Plain meats would ne'er agree with him;
Yet feign'd to praise the gothic treat,
And, if he ate not, seem'd to eat.

In sleep sad Florio hoped to find,
The pleasures he had left behind,
He dreamt, and, lo! to charm his eyes,
The form of Weltje seem'd to rise;
The gracious vision waved his wand,
And banquets sprung to Florio's hand;
Th' imaginary savours rose
In tempting odours to his nose.
A bell, not Fancy's false creation,
Gives joyful" note of preparation;"
He starts, he wakes, the bell he hears;
Alas! it rings for morning prayers.

But how to spend next tedious morning,
Was past his possible discerning;
Unable to amuse himself,

He tumbled every well-ranged shelf;

This book was dull, and that was wise,

And this was monstrous as to size.

With eager joy he gobbled down

Whate'er related to the town;

Whate'er look'd small, whate'er look'd new,

Half-bound, or stitch'd in pink or blue,

A celebrated Cook and Confectioner.